18th December 2017
Welcome to winter…
I’ve just been given some mulled cider. It’s giving me the willies, but then anything described as mulled always does. It’s wicked cloudy, and apparently you warm it in the bottle until it looks almost angry, then take it far away from the heat as quickly as possible, let its temper settle for a few days, pour and enjoy the headache.
What can you possibly tame mulled cider with? A pot of nutmeg and a meaningful dilution of rum might do it, but perhaps it’s better to throw the whole contents into a bucket with a load of unmolested apples (not cookers) for some extreme Christmas apple bobbing?
Maybe I’ll just pour it all over an apple tree and see what an extreme dose of itself does to its own kind over the coming seasons. I imagine it’ll develop a foul temper and go to sleep for summer.
Do not mull with reality this Christmas.
But what else is there to do? I’m currently taking a Café Crème’s worth of a break from writing, now that the duty and perversities of The Brine in Me as an editor’s draft are complete and the whole circus can hot foot itself to Scotland for editing.
Quick shout-up to my posies on Scotland! Howdy guys!
I know someone who was mulled out with life some time ago, right down to the dumps. He thought Scotland would rescue him, so he went there, thought it amazing, and ended up rescuing himself instead. Just like that…
And somehow such a reflective attitude brings me towards the end of the year. It’s pretty much been business as usual. I’m still listening to cassette tapes in my car because the CD multi changer in the boot has refused to work for another year. I can’t even remember if it was broken in the first place or if we fell out and I’ve slowly forgotten about it. I’m not giving in now, and I like making a mix tape anyway.
Oh hang on… I’ve leaned on the button at the keyboard that makes the computer eat the words that you’ve already typed. I’ve got to go and get Anna to fix it before there’s nothing left…
That’s better. You press insert again. But don’t you do it because it is a hungry animal if you write a lot of words before looking up. Why would you even put that on a keyboard? Can you imagine a pen that did that? If you know the answer, I’m not listening. I’m reflecting, and trying to mull over some highlights of the year.
I got a receipt from The British Library for The Meifod Claw, which I am retrospectively very happy about, but at the time of arrival I scribbled graffiti all over it. You can guess one of the shapes.
Hearing that people have been moved/downtrodden by mind and credulity from their time with The Meifod Claw this year has been a humbling and odd experience, though it ultimately comes second place to Felco vaguely approving of the public love that I give for their amazing secateurs. I will take this opportunity to remind everyone that there is only Felco for the garden; everything else isn’t Swiss made. Why not buy some for a Christmas loved one?
While I’m on the garden, I’ve been through a many, many headed hydra of emotion with roses this year. Not the Yuletide confectionery type, I mean the stabby, thorny bastards that I thought I’d drawn a truce with this summer, almost to the point of appreciation for their form, only for a gang of them to savagely attack me a few weeks ago, taking me right back to where I’d started. Suspicion.
Which I guess is a fair way of rounding out the year, if a little on the sinister side. It might just leave me time for my Potential Villainy of the Year Award. In fact it has, but the regal ramifications of the result are enough to make you look for the insert button. And while I’m at it, insert is neither in reference to a person, nor act thereof.
Anyway the answer was Sebastian Coe.
No it wasn’t.
So have a good Christmas. Keep it steady, and try not to have a row with all the family. I’ve got three older brothers, so this time of year can be like the grubbier end of The Somme. I’m thinking that I might shove some of the mulled cider into the roast potatoes so that everyone crashes out in the afternoon, after we’ve all been getting along and The Cannonball Run has finished.
In between let Oblivion reign…
JW Bowe xx
P.S! Anna urges me to point out that Christmas is coming, and the goose is getting fat. She is not kidding; we didn’t eat ours from last year, and we’ve kept up the feeding regime all year long. It’s bloody enormous. We’re going to need a bigger oven.
If you enjoyed this blog, and you’re impatient for something else to read, feel free to bunch up close to a free sample chapter from JW Bowe’s debut novel, The Meifod Claw, which is available now at Amazon, iTunes and on various other international eReaders.
You can also double up your sampling by following this link to the forthcoming fictional autobiography of The Meifod Claw’s wheelchair-in-chief, Derek Gainsborough. His life and apologies will be released next year under the sail of The Brine in Me.
JW Bowe can also be unearthed on YouTube and in various other ways through the Serious Biscuits homepage. Scroll down for further links, action and disclaimers.
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